


tie

by abovethethroat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: ADHD, Anxiety, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes-centric, Denial, Disability, Fidgeting, Gen, Medical Trauma, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Neurodivergent Bucky Barnes, Neurodiversity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Trauma, Psychosomatic pain, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Stimming, Suppressing trauma, mental disability, nerve pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 12:14:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20488727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethethroat/pseuds/abovethethroat
Summary: Bucky's never been willing to deal with his past trauma, his ADHD or the psychosomatic nerve pain. But it's all good, he's fine. Definitely.





	tie

Bucky isn’t wearing a hair tie when entering the battlefield through Strange’s portal, revved up and ready to fight. He lets it flow freely while making his way through the mud to their enemies, taking them out with brute force as well as from afar, lurking in the shadows with his rifle. As blood in a spectrum of colors runs in a stream by his boots, he aims his M249 SAW at whatever’s moving towards him, pulls the trigger, and watches the body drop with a thud. 

The satisfaction of taking out his target has, historically, always been there for Bucky. But it’s meant different things at different points in his life. Back before the war, he’d kick the ass of whatever idiot that, _ once again, _ tried to hurt his friends. It’d usually be Steve’s messes he’d have to clean up for him, always getting that same _ I had him on the ropes _ when helping his scrawny friend out of back alleys. He’d pretend to have a reason for rebuttoning his uniform, adjusting the hat, but he really only needed something to keep his hands and mind busy. He’d seen the way broads would twirl their hair between their fingers, carefully as to not upset the ‘do. He sometimes wished he could wear his hair that way, _ long, _ maybe with a frilly ensemble that’d feel nice to run his fingers over. 

But that wasn’t acceptable, so he pushed his hands deep into his pockets, balled them up into fists when he felt like running a hand through his hair. That gave him something to do, something for his senses to focus on, _ something that wasn’t looked down upon _ . He tried not to think about it, about his brain never shutting up even if he wasn’t agitated, about how he constantly had to be in motion. Apart from making sure his best friend wasn’t beaten to death before 30 and holding him during his too-frequent coughing fits (praying silently that there would be no blood, not this time), he was also busy with the boxing, getting himself into shape for what he knew was the next step, what his father had done before him and what _ his father’s _father had done even before that. Getting the word that it was his time to ship out with the 107th felt like what he’d worked for all his life, what he was meant to do.

His need to fiddle with the lapels of his uniform, to tug on his dog tags for some extra focus, remained from the moment he was shipped out until he lost his grip on the train, tumbling into the abyss. If he puts in some effort, he can remember being strapped to a cold metal table in between the blanks, the amount of pain surging through his nerves and flesh etched into his brain, clinking dog tags long forgotten. 

The asset never fidgeted when activated. After hearing _ daybreak _ and the current mission briefing, there were only steady fingers on the trigger of a gun, flips of a knife between mechanical knuckles, taking out the mark. Clean. The lucid moments between the wipes and cryo never lasted long, they weren’t _ meant to, _ but the asset’s fingers would twirl together in the chair during debrief, just before _ more pain, _ and the asset never questioned it. The asset never questioned _ anything. _

Coming out of the trance half a century later, Bucky finds himself without a set of directions for the first time in a very long time. He still struggles with the traces of the brainwashing sometimes, but he is mostly back, as clean of a slate as he’ll ever be. Of course Steve notices that his hands still shake while in battle (and outside of missions, as well), in a way they never quite did _ before. _ The time they spent together in Azzano 70 years ago is fresh in both their minds as if the rescue mission happened last week, and Bucky wishes they could both just forget, sometimes. He _ knows _ that Steve compares the Bucky before him to the one he remembers from back in the day, and of all the things that break Bucky’s heart, _ this one _has to be the worst of them. 

The memories don’t match up with what’s in front of his best friend, Bucky understands, and he wants to be better for him but his damn hands won’t stop _ shaking _ and he can’t seem to stay still for long, his mind going out on tangents like it’s a sport _ . _Even the monstrous hunk of metal attached to him, covered by a shirt sleeve and glove when in civilian attire, seizes up regularly and sparks nerve pains so bad he has to double over and do the best he can to breathe harshly through the pain in order to not pass out. Or maybe he does, he can never be quite sure.

He has never understood why his _ right _ arm and hand being restless trigger the severe pain on the other side of his torso, but Steve throws around words Bucky only recognizes partly when he’s around to catch a bout of the worst, like _ trauma, coping mechanism, psychosomatic pain _ and something that sounds like _ eighty-eight-dee, _ but Steve could be messing with him for all he knows, playing a prank on him with that bird guy zipping around in the sky. Apparently it’s possible to assign combinations of letters to people now, and have them _ mean _ something. Steve’s had time to read up on it by the looks of how he throws these phrases and letters around in a way that only makes Bucky think of alphabet soup. His friend has admitted to having problems with battle fatigue _ (no, shit, that’s not the word being used now, is it?) _ and Bucky thinks that most people exposed to the horrors of war probably do, it’s the price they pay for protecting the red white and blue and making the world a better place. He knows all about it. Well, apart from the 50 years spent as the asset. _ That _probably wasn’t ever intended like that.

The man in the winged combat gear is named Wilson, and turns out to be a discharged soldier that seems to know all there is to know about these ailments. And as Bucky gets a crash course, _ not _ by choice, he learns that battle fatigue has been known as post-traumatic stress disorder since the seventies, and that it’s not just exclusive to veterans. And the eighty-eight-dee, as he’s mistakenly thought it’s called, is actually _ ADHD, _and reading the list of symptoms makes a little light flicker on in his mind, gently illuminating something that’s been pushed to the side in the darkness for all these years. Wilson lets him know that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, that being different isn’t the sin it was made out to be a century ago. 

He knows it’s the shame from back in the day still hanging around, the knee-jerk reaction after being accused of maybe not being an all-around perfect cookie cutter man, but Bucky doesn’t really want to talk to Steve about it. He’s always been the well adjusted one of the pair, the big brother of sorts, considering Steve was always skinny as a rake and ended up in all _ sorts _ of trouble that Bucky’d fix right up. He’s not quite ready to let go of the alpha male ideal, admitting that his mind works differently and that the layers and layers of trauma he’s been through hasn’t actually left him unscathed. 

But _ Captain America, _ the righteous schmuck he can sometimes be, just keeps _ pushing _ because apparently therapy sessions and medication and constant conversations are the way to go about these things, and Bucky’s still not fucking ready. He’s only just come out of a 70-year-long coma and doesn’t know who this new and modern version of James Buchanan Barnes is, damn it, so he snaps. He’s got the information but not the tools to deal with it all (because he refuses to go to the sessions with Sam), and he takes his aggressions out on his friends, on his team mates, on himself. He stops asking for help diverging his mind from the restless tapping on the island in the communal kitchen, and hides away in his sleeping quarters as soon as the tapping morphs into shakes, with pain following not far behind. 

The pain shooting through his body as his knuckles lock up keeps him from sleeping. Bucky never bothers leaving the lounge when everyone else retreats to bed, because he knows it’s futile, he knows that it will be just as painful in his bed as it’ll be here on the floor in between a red chair and the cream colored sofa. His labored breaths echo against the room’s surfaces, and the pain always reminds him of a time when this level of agony would be deliberately induced just so some lab coats could watch him scream. Nowadays it’s just him and the silence, battling this together. He’s free to roll around on the hardwood floor in agony, without vibranium cuffs pinning him down. 

Steve sometimes enters the room before the pain is gone and Bucky can focus on anything that isn’t pure agony, fire coursing through his body. The large yet gentle hands on his shoulder, rubbing his back, do little to ease the pain. But Steve still tries. It never seems to matter to Steve if Bucky’s chewing people out days on end or hiding away, because he always comes to the rescue anyway. Bucky can’t for the life of him understand why his friend sticks around through all this, why everyone seems hell-bent on keeping him around even though it complicates relationships and missions. 

He’s never aware that he’s crying through the pain until warm and calloused fingers wipe tears from his cheeks. He’d clutch the slivers left of his _ manly pride _to his chest and storm off if he were in a state to do so, and he curses the trauma for stripping him of the ability to keep himself leveled and in control in both physical and mental high-stress situations. He still remembers the training, but it does little good when your body won’t listen. 

“You’re alright, bud, just breathe through the pain” is whispered in his ear, strong arms hoisting him up from the floor even though the pain seems to intensify if he so much as moves a muscle. He yelps and wheezes, and for a moment he’s positive he’ll throw up on his own two feet. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to get you down to the lab so Stark can fix the circuits once and for all. You can’t go on like this, Buck.” He can do this. He’ll make it to the sub level without any accidents. _You can do this, Barnes._

As they get to the elevator and FRIDAY sets it in motion, Bucky gets about two seconds before he sinks down to his knees, dinner suddenly cascading down his chin and lap in a partly digested, filthy stream. _ Well shit. _ The doors open, revealing Tony just on the other side holding a welding helmet in his hands, looking equally as surprised when there’s someone on the other side. _ “Sir, it appears Mister Barnes is in need of your services,” _FRIDAY reports, and Tony looks like he’s got a witty reply ready to go, but it dies on his tongue as he takes in the state of the pair.

“Dum-E, over here, and make it quick,” he gestures to the robot in the corner, snapping his fingers as he does so. It whirrs gently and starts rolling their way. There’s a crash as glass beakers and tools meet the ground, and suddenly Bucky’s lifted up onto a cleared table as if he weren’t a 260 pound writhing mess. “Give me the run down, Capsicle. The condensed version, if you will, because he’s obviously in extreme pain and prolonging it does no one good,” Tony says as he grabs a tool box and starts rummaging through it. 

“Pain in his left arm again, it’s the usual,” Steve sighs, and Bucky’s had _ enough _ of hurting and worrying his friends. He wishes he didn’t have to drag them into his messes, and thinks of the poor soul that has to clean the elevator for him. _ Poor bastard. _ A hand steadies his shoulder as Stark starts unscrewing the outer shell of his bionic arm. He _ howls, _ finding and gripping Steve’s hand so hard it’s probably going to leave _ him _ sore. He repeats the words from before, _ it’s alright, _and strokes Bucky’s sweat soaked hair away from his forehead. 

His Back arches as a new wave shoots through him, feet scrambling for purchase without any luck. Steve leans over his body, effectively pinning Bucky down with his body weight. “_ Relax, _ Barnes,” Tony says, not sounding relaxed at all _ himself, _ “I’ll just rewire these two puppies here, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” There’s a _ zap _ in the air when Tony’s spent what feels like a lifetime poking around among the wires and sensors, and the pain goes down from an eleven to a five in an instant. Bucky feels like his strings have been cut and flops down on the table, crying out in relief. The arm closes with a _ click, _and then there’s only heavy breathing to be heard in the workshop. 

“Thank you,” Bucky croaks out, and attempts to sit up. Steve puts a hand on his chest, preventing him from moving once again, and Bucky looks up at his friend, asking silently what it is _ now. _ Because the pain’s gone down, it’s all good. _ Well, _ Bucky thinks, _ it’s as good as it’s ever going to get until next time. _Steve sighs.

“_ Buck, _ ” he pleas, and sits down right next to him on the table. The heat of his body is nice, soothing, even, and he leans into it as his friend goes on. “This has gone too far, and you know it. We can’t just stand by and watch you suffer like this, you need _ help. _ ” And there it is. What he’s been dreading, getting _ dissected _ again. Bucky’s made it very clear that he never wants someone to pick his brain, literally _ or _figuratively, ever again. He also knows that every single person on the team disagrees with his decision, but he’s never imagined being confronted about it.

There’s the clang of a screwdriver being put down on his left side, followed by Tony cocking his head in a way that means _ I don’t really want to get involved in this, but Steve’s right, _ and Bucky suddenly gets the urge to slap him. “No,” he says. “ _ No. _ I’ve made it very clear that I don’t _ want that. _Just-, just rewire this piece of shit once and for all and I’ll be good to go, I can take it.”

Steve pulls him up in a manner that’s almost threatening, _ almost, _ and gives him a stern look. “You listen to me, Barnes, and you listen _ good. _ I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you think you can ‘take.’ It’s about you deserving to work through your issues and learning what it means to be healthy in the 21st century. I know you don’t care, but _ I _ do, the _ team _does. If not for yourself, do it for us, Bucky. You know I can’t let you out into the field like this in good conscience. I will have no choice but to assign you to Commander Hill if you don’t comply.”

He takes a moment to process what he’s just heard, and pulls his arm out of Steve’s grip forcefully when he realizes what this means. “You’re _ benching me _ ?” he exclaims, suddenly seething with rage. “You can’t do this, Steve! This is _ nothing _!” He slaps the metal arm with his right one once, twice, before getting stuck in Steve’s grip once again.

“I absolutely _ can, _ and I _ will. _ I am ordering you as your superior. You either let me set up an appointment with Sam _ for you _ or you’re out until you’re capable of making the decision on your own.”

Bucky realizes that he’s not going to be able to sweet-talk his way out of this one. There’s nothing like being stuck choosing between a bad thing and an even _ worse _ one, but he decides that he won’t budge. They _ need him. _ And therapy is obviously the worse choice here, right? He’s spent his entire life keeping up with what a man’s supposed to be, and a man is not meant to be _ weak. _ Maybe it’s slightly different now, but Bucky still feels the echoes of a time when he’d get roughed up for showing too much emotion, for saying too much. He learned to put a lid on it at a young age, to fidget in a way no one would notice and using the extra energy during bootcamp or boxing. _ Steve, _on the other hand, never stopped censoring himself, and Bucky never envied his friend beaten to a pulp. Not for one second.

It takes a week of being stuck beside Commander Hill during missions before she reports to her Captain that continuing work with Bucky won’t be possible. _ Rat. _ Apparently he’s “too fidgety” and “can’t keep his train of thought in busy situations,” which is absolute bullshit. Being forced to go to therapy with Wilson twice a week, even though he’s done everything to avoid it, is _ also _bullshit. Bucky doesn’t want to read self help books, he just wants to help out in the battle field, damn it. But apparently Wilson doesn’t agree with that.

“First of all, call me _ Sam,” _ is what Bucky gets upon entering his first session. “And second of all, who said anything about self help books? These meetings are all about you becoming the _ best _ and _ healthiest _version of yourself that you can be, and that will, in turn, make you a better soldier.”

Bucky huffs in disagreement, but doesn’t say anything. “What?” Sam asks. “You do understand that communication goes both ways, right? If you want to ever get done with therapy, you need to speak your mind. You won’t offend me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“There’s no way that I can become a better soldier by sitting in this _ chair. _ It takes strength and determination. I’m offended that _ you _ of all people could say something like that. _ Sir. _”

Sam nods slowly. “I understand that someone with your specific background could see it that way. Let me explain. If you got a hairline fracture in your leg, you could technically still walk, right? It’d be painful as hell, of course, but I bet _ you’d _ still do it. Now, imagine putting stress on that injury when it’s really supposed to heal in peace, it’ll take much longer, and it will most likely heal crooked and cause problems with walking in the future. Sometimes you even have to break it again and start the healing process all over to get it working like it’s supposed to. Now take everything I just told you about the fracture and apply it to _ any _trauma or diagnosis you haven’t made peace with yet.”

Bucky thinks back to the little corner of his mind that lit up when reading that ADHD symptoms list, comparing that to the little boy who learned to hide his differences from the world out of fear of becoming ostracized. He doesn’t _ want _to see the connection, still struggling with that deep rooted shame that he knows is obsolete these days. He tells himself that he really doesn’t care. He reluctantly goes to the appointments each week, doing his assigned homework between sessions. He suffers through the arm pains coming and going, and he still finds himself benched.

There’s not much progress for a while. Bucky doesn’t really _ believe _ that therapy will ever work, but does what he’s told because he’s still a soldier at heart, yearning for that action he’s missing out on. He’s in one of the labs with Stark, fine tuning the arm and talking shit. The mechanic’s in the middle of a story so dependent on knowledge of physics that Buck’s completely _ lost, _ but he lets it slide. Bucky’s a bit relieved when Tony shifts the focus of the conversation onto Spider-Man, _ Peter. _He doesn’t know that much about the boy other than what he experienced in Germany with the webbing and all that.

Tony slips a bit with his grease covered fingers, making Bucky yelp. “Oi! Watch it, tin-can.” He’s not entirely sure it _ wasn’t _ on purpose. He finds out that Tony’s apparently learned quite a bit from Peter, both about what it really takes to co-parent and guide someone to that extent, but also what he needs to do for _ himself _ in order to do the best both professionally and personally _ . _ Bucky listens, really, he _ does, _ but then he’s losing focus and remembering every time he’s put someone else’s wants and needs before his own. Every time he found a moment of clarity during the asset’s debrief, horrified at what he’d done and with no dog tags to squeeze in his palms to keep the rising bile in the back of his throat at bay. He remembers the pretty blouses he never got to run his hands over to stay focused, the way he was scolded when the buttons on his uniform fell off and had to be replaced because he just couldn’t stop _ touching them. _

This time, Bucky feels the tears coming on, and pulls his knees up on the spinny chair in order to hide his face. But no matter how many snide remarks Tony spits out, no matter how disinterested he makes himself out to look, Stark’s not _ cruel. _ He takes a few deep breaths and thinks that maybe he can keep from crying. As the seconds pass sluggishly, he can tell it’s a battle he’s going to lose. As he starts to sob in earnest, he can hear Tony getting up from the other chair, giving him space. _ Thank god for small mercies. _

It’s quiet for a few moments, before FRIDAY speaks. _ “Sure thing, boss. Captain Rogers has been alerted and will be arriving shortly.” _ Bucky realizes that Stark must’ve called for Steve, _ his Steve, _and he can’t decide if he’s embarrassed or relieved. There’s the sound of a side door sliding closed, and he’s finally alone in the room, long limbs huddled up on the cushioned chair to the best of his ability.

_ God, I’m so lonely, _ he thinks. And he _ gets _ it now, what Sam and Steve and basically everyone else’s been trying to say all this time. He’s been pushing everything that is difficult to the side for almost _ ten decades. _ Every time he’s wanted to fidget but suppressed it in fear of what someone might say, every pang of envy at seeing well adjusted people that aren’t just _ pretending, _ the suffering he’s been through but never processed, it’s all taking the spotlight now. He can no longer pretend that he’s doing okay, this stops right here.

He’s not entirely sure where it comes from, but he lets out a scream so loud that the glass shelves rattle. He’s sad and restless and lost, and bits of the plastic lining on the underside of the chair snap off when Bucky clenches his fists around it. He isn’t trying to be violent, he just wants to _ feel _ in a way he never lets himself. He runs his fingers over the jagged edges repeatedly, almost petting them. _ I am allowed to feel. I am allowed to feel, I _ _ am allowed to feel. _ Another sob makes its way out of him, this time it’s almost relieving to let it go, just as the elevator dings, revealing his friend on the other side, looking bewildered and very, _ very _worried.

“Oh my god, Buck, what’s going on?” Steve exclaims, making his way over, carefully taking in the scene of Bucky picking off bits of the chair with his fingers. He kneels down in front of him, gently cupping his face in his hands. “Bucky? Are you in pain?” he asks, giving him a once-over. Bucky lifts his head a bit, and shakes it.

“No, I-,” he splutters, interrupted by another wave of sobbing. He goes against his instincts, what he’s taught himself is _ okay, _and wraps his arms around Steve’s neck. He can tell by the way his shoulders square up a bit that Steve isn’t expecting that, and Bucky takes a few seconds to get his breathing under control. “This is not alright, I’m-,” is what he settles for.

Steve, however, misunderstands. “Of course it is. I know you’re not a touchy-feely type of person, but I need you to know that you can always come to me if you need a hug, hell, if you need _ anything. _I’m here for you, Buck.” 

“Steve, _ listen! _ ” He pulls back a bit to wipe snot and tears off his own face. “This,” he motions to himself. “ _ Me. _ I am not alright. You’ve been trying to make me see for a while now and I’ve-, I wasn’t ready. But I _ feel _it now and it fucking hurts. It hurts so bad, Stevie, I-,” he chokes on another sob and hides his face in his hands again. He’s known things weren’t perfect, but he never imagined it would hurt this much to let himself really feel what he’s been avoiding for so long. 

“Oh, bud,” Steve whispers, sounding a little choked up himself. He runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, the other rubbing his back in soothing circles. “I am so glad that you understand that you need to deal with your trauma and heal, but I’m sorry that it’s hurting you this much. I hate seeing you in pain.” Bucky sinks into the warm embrace and tries to use Steve’s steady heartbeat as an anchor. “You’ve helped me so much, you know that? Back when I was that scrawny little boy in Brooklyn, you’d drag the ass of anyone that so much as_ looked _ at me wrong through the dirt. Now it’s my turn, let me help you. I’ll be right here with you, till the end of the line. Remember that?” He smiles a bit, because _ of course _ Steve’s pulling out that cheesy line to make him feel better. It works, because when _ isn’t _he soft for his damn best friend. Bucky buries his face in his shoulder again, and he feels Steve’s pleased hum vibrating through his body. “Mhm, thought so.” 

Bucky isn’t wearing a hair tie when entering the battlefield through Strange’s portal, revved up and ready to fight. But he’s got it on his wrist, ready to tie it up and get it out of his face if he needs to. But for now, he lets it flow freely as he makes his way through the mud to their enemies, ready to strike. He finally understands that he’s got the freedom to do what he needs in order to keep his focus, in order to be his best self. 

As he’s hiding behind the ruins of what’s left of the compound’s living room to load up his rifle with another round, he lets his fingers snake up into his hair for a second, twisting and tugging gently to keep himself grounded, alert and fit for fight. He briefly imagines the red chair and cream colored sofa turned to splinters and buried deep beneath the rubble. _ Good. _ The little guy from Brooklyn, too dumb not to run away from a fight, wields Mjölnir. Bucky ties the front of his hair up, putting the hair tie to good use. He’s ready to follow Steve into the jaws of death, whatever it takes. _ Showtime. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! I definitely relate to Bucky in this when it comes to suppressing stims sometimes in fear of being judged by others, and I wanted to write about that. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated <3


End file.
